Yvain had looked up at the Seigneur, lying on her back, thighs parted as wide as she could for him, watching him raise the riding crop, wondering if he meant to lash her cunt or her thighs. She’d said, “Please,” and the word still echoed in her mind.
She knew she hadn’t been crying out for mercy. She’d wanted him to know that she needed his mark, no, his marks, on her thighs, so that when she wrapped them round his body, as she knew she would soon, she could hold him tight and feel that pain and his ownership even as he took her.
Or she meant, she wanted him to know that she was his, and that it felt right to be his, even as he hurt her, and had her casually punished by others, sometimes without even bothering to watch.
He smiled down at her. “You weren’t told you can speak, little Yvain. You keep demanding more punishment, don’t you?”
“That wasn’t an answer, Yvain.” He brought the crop down, on her inner left thigh, on soft, plump flesh close to her opened cunt. Suddenly, without build-up, there was a line of hot pain across that thigh, and the crack of the leather on her soft skin.
Yvan wailed, lost. “Yes! I meant yes, my Seigneur! I’m sorry.”
“You have permission to speak, now. I don’t want to have to punish you for every sound you make. In the meantime, keep your thighs well spread, Yvain. Don’t tense your muscles.” The Seigneur raised the crop again. It hovered, ready to strike. He waited, till she dared to look him in the eyes. Then he smiled at her and struck again. The crop wrote a fresh hot weal of pain on her right inner thigh.
Yvain gasped and writhed. She felt the urge to thank him. It seemed absurd and yet it was overpowering. “Thank you, my Seigneur.”
He laughed, mouth closed, inside her throat. “You have four more strokes, little one. Two for your squealing, out in the corridor, when you were giving Karl his exercise and you were told to remain silent. And we have to deal with the ‘please’. I like the sentiment, but you disobeyed me when you spoke.”
Yvain felt, again, her body yearning. She nodded, but said nothing.
“I’m going to give you two strokes for each. Is that fair?”
“Yes, my Seigneur. Of course it is. I hate disobeying you. I want to show you – ” But she broke off. She didn’t have the words.
“Good. You know you are aroused, Yvain. You know that if you touched your cunt now, you would come. Is this true?”
“Yes, my Seigneur. I’m very close.”
“Yes, my Seigneur. It’s true.”
“I’m going to make you come, soon, little one.”
Yvain nodded. That was true, too.
“Would you prefer to have your four strokes now, or after you’ve come?”
“Now, please! I mean, my Seigneur!”
He smiled, and applied the four strokes, unhurried, letting her absorb each one, and waiting till she met his eyes before delivering the next. At the end Yvain, with six reddish black raised weals burning on her inner thighs, wanted to scream, though not with pain.
The Seigneur knelt then. “It’s time you gave me your first orgasm, little Yvain.” He leaned forward till his head was between her burningly sensitive thighs. He lowered his face till she felt his tongue touch the sleek wetness off her cunt.
No man, or woman had done that before. It felt like a rush of pleasure, like th sweetest food she had ever eaten. Her thighs closed a little, so she could feel her welts against his face. His tongue moved, licking upwards. She moaned. Then, this time knowing what she meant, she said, “Please.”